How We Live
by Dr.J.H Watson
Summary: Three and half years after the Fall John is working towards a new career and is married to Dr. Mary Morstan, with whom he resides at 221b. It looks as if John has been able to pickup the pieces of his formal life and rebuild, but not all is as it seems.John's first case will lead him on a path that will either destroy him or save him from the emptiness that he is so good at hiding.
1. The First

**Authors Note:**

Hello All! I just wanted to say a quick few things about the story you're about to enjoy, well at least I hope you enjoy it! First of all I want to thank TheRimmerConnection for being an amazing beta! Second I just want to say this story will get quite dark, but there is a happy ending to be had. This is a Johnlock fic as well, so if that's not your thing, I would suggest moving along. Alrighty, let's get on with it shall we!

* * *

"John!"

"Hullo Greg."

"Thanks for coming on such short notice, John. I know you were on at A&E, but this had you written all over it, thought it'd be a good one for your first official case as part of the force."

John studied the hallway floor; he couldn't quite bring himself to step into the flat which held the crime scene. It had been a few years and he was trying to acclimate to the idea that he was here without Sher… without HIM. John had spent the last three years training as a histopathologist; he had a few years yet before becoming a fully fledged forensic pathologist, but Greg had pulled a few strings to get his training done with him at the NSY.

"All right John?" Greg saw the distance in John's eyes that showed the man had went deep inside himself. Just another trait John had picked up from Sherlock. Greg was sure John had a 'mind palace of his own now.

"Huh? Oh yes, of course… Just… You know…"

"I know, it was strange for me at first, too. You'll get used to it, John. Much quieter, that's for sure…"

John looked Greg straight in the eye, to let him know that he should stop talking. John could see the look of pity in his closest friend's eyes. John couldn't call Greg his best friend, that title had been taken long ago, but in John's new reality Greg was as close as John allowed people these days. Except Mary, Mary was different, Mary knew everything. He didn't have to pretend for her, and now he was losing her as well. People he loved died, that was John's reality now as well. Jumping off a building or lying in a bed dying of cancer, did it really matter? Death was death and it was John's constant companion, the only thing he could depend on to always be there.

"How's Mary doing?" Sometimes Greg was annoyingly observant…

"She's back in the hospital; for good this time... It's spread too far. There is just too much."

Greg visibly shuddered as John spoke. Maybe it was the coldness in his voice, a voice which had always expressed such caring devotion to duty in the past. But that had been before... before the fall... before life had kicked the kindness out of John Watson. John knew that Greg sympathized with him, pitied him, even. No doubt he felt that life had treated John worse than he deserved. Not that that helped much.

John took the few steps to the flats door and ducked underneath the familiar yellow tape. His training really was just a formality. No one knew a crime scene, in the form medical point of view, better than John Watson; well no one alive anyway. John grabbed a pair of examination gloves out of his kit and pulled them on with the quick efficiency of the well-practiced. When he pulled out the pocket magnifying glass from inside his coat, a few of the other yarders stopped what they were doing and stared at John. The silent honoring of Sherlock memory in this one movement was heartbreaking and the officers felt as if they were intruding in on a sacred moment they had no right to be a part of. John just ignored it and continued his examination of the body. Greg knelt down beside him.

"John, are" John cut him off before the DI could get the question out.

"Don't, Lestrade, just don't…"

"Alright, John, Alright." Greg drew in a breath. "How long then?"

"Anyone get a temp yet?"

"Yeah, Johnson's got it charted at 33.8. "

"So about four hours then, give or take. The stab wound isn't what killed her, though. Not enough blood…"

John could see something was wrong here, but he just couldn't place it. He began to run his hands over the body, checking under her fingernails, looking and feeling for defensive marks. When he felt the neck of the women he found the reason there wasn't any sign of a struggle. Someone had come behind her and snapped her neck. He continued his examination by opening the victim's mouth; he paused when he saw something metallic. John turned and dug into his bag for a pair of tweezers.

John was pulling a chain out of the victim's mouth with the tweezers. As soon as it was completely free, an all too familiar jangle came to his ears.

"John? What the fu… what is that?"

"Dog tags, Lestrade, _those_ are dog tags. Someone snapped her neck and then shoved these down her throat. The stab wound was inflicted after she was already dead. "

"The name, John?"

"Hm?"

"What's the name on the tags?" Greg asked again as he held out an evidence bag for John to drop in the tags.

"Watson. J.H., these are my dog tags, Lestrade..."


	2. Grievously Underestimated

Sitting in Lestrade's office back at NYS John stared at the evidence bag that held one of his most prized possessions. The last time he had seen his dog tags they were placed in a velvet lined cedar box with his Conspicuous Gallantry Cross. He remembered placing the box in the safe at 221b when moving back in with Mary two years ago. Getting shot while pulling an American Major out of a bombed out Humvee and performing a lifesaving field surgery came with titles like "hero" and "bravest among the brave". Even though John didn't talk about those times, it didn't mean he wasn't proud of them. Invalid or not, he still thought of himself as Captain John H. Watson, and someone had grievously underestimated what he was capable of when they had robbed him of his tags. Whoever 'they' were had awoken something in John, something he hadn't felt for years. The fight was coming back, and he almost felt pity for those who would be on the other end of this deep-seated rage.

"Here…"

Donovan was pressing a Styrofoam cup into his hands. He hadn't heard her enter the office.

"No sugar, touch of milk. Just like old times huh?"

It was the first time he had seen Sally Donovan in over three years. John summoned the picture to his mind of their last meeting.

John had never hit a woman in his life, but he had placed hands on Sally at HIS wake. John had pushed her against a wall shouting every bit of abuse that he could think of at her. It had taken Lestrade physically picking John up and Mrs. Hudson's hysterical cries for John to release the Sergeant. He raged against them all in the first few days. Lestrade had betrayed them, Anderson and Donovan, being the fuck-ups that they are, played perfectly in to Moriarty's plans, Mycroft had sold his brother out for trade secrets, Molly hadn't been at St. Bart's to stop HIM from going up on the roof, and John had left HIM in righteous anger. They all pushed HIM off that building, they were all to blame and he hated them, no one more than himself.

It hadn't been until Mycroft brought John into his office a week later that he began to function again. Mycroft told John he had procured Sherlock's phone and that there was a recording that John needed to listen too. Greg was there as well, but John barely registered his presence. Listening to the recording between his best friend and the world's only consulting criminal had brought everything to light. HE was not a fake, Moriarty had been real, and HE had jumped to save the few people HE cared about. John still didn't understand why HE had tried to convince him that HE was a fake during HIS last few moments. John had a feeling that HE never meant for Mycroft to share this with him. Greg had been torn up by the recording, and John did little in the way of trying to alleviate the all-encompassing guilt and shame the DI was feeling. HE had died for two men, whom, in the end, turned their backs when HE was at HIS most vulnerable.

"You machine!"

"Nope. Friends protect people."

John's last words in person to HIM haunted John's nightmares, but the phone call replayed in his mind at least ten times a day the first few months. The script still popped up from time to time when John was exhausted and his guard was down.

John was lost in his own mind that he didn't register that Sally was still talking.

"…So who would want your attention that badly John?"

"You're still here?" John mumbled.

"John, this is serious. Your dog tags were shoved down a victim's throat. Someone knew that Greg would pull you in on this… I was saying, who would want your attention that badly?" Sally had placed a hand on John's shoulder and John violently wretched back in his chair to get away from the touch.

"Sally, is this the part where you start being an idiot and say I'm the murderer, because we all know what happens when you open that mouth of yours and spew your weak minded conclusions! Or did you not learn your lesson the last time? "

"I…"

"John, calm down. No one is saying you had anything to do with this, are we, Sally?" Greg had wandered in during John's tirade. Greg no longer had respect for Sally Donovan; the fact that she had been elevated to a DI came with a perk though, and that was the fact that Greg didn't have to work with her that often.

"No, of course not, Gr.."

Lestrade cut her off midsentence. "Sally, maybe you should, you know, go be somewhere else…"

John stared at the woman with as much hatred as he could put into a look.

"Yes, Sally, I'm sure someone's floors need a good scrubbing."

The jab was quite out of character for John, but he could not stop it from escaping his lips. God, it felt so good to feel a piece of HIM so close. The memory of that first case was bittersweet. Before they knew of what Jim Moriarty had in store for them, when the brilliance of the deductions had been awe inspiring, even when it was calling out the sexual liaisons between co-workers.

Greg shot John a reproachful glare and John quickly shifted his eyes away from Donovan as the woman walked away. Had he really just said that to a DI of NSY? Cracks in his well-constructed walls were beginning to form.

"Look, John, I'm worried about you, mate. Sally was right about one thing; this was a message for you. I mean the locked door, murdered woman inside, no sign of forced entry. This is just the type of case you and Sherlock were known for... then, Jesus, your dog tags, John. It doesn't get more personal than that."

"If I didn't know he was long dead, Greg, I would say this reeks of Moriarty, but since I saw his body burn with my own eyes, I know better. Listen, Lestrade, am I a suspect here? I mean, am I free to go?"

"You are free to go John, of course, but stay close, yeah? Answer me if I call, and for the love of God, don't do anything stupid."

The pair walked out to the elevators. It killed John to leave his tags sitting on the desk, but knew that Lestrade couldn't allow him to take them. John mashed the down button on the elevator and sighed as he saw Lestrade get on as well.

"Greg Jesus, don't worry alright. I'm just going to go home and look around. Whoever stole my tags was quite good, Lestrade, but sod it if I'm not just as good. I will figure out who did this Lestrade." John took a deep breath; he knew this isn't what Lestrade wanted to hear from him. "Listen, I call Mycroft as well yeah, see if that rat bastard knows anything."

The elevator stopped at the lobby and they both existed.

"Call me when you have more on the victim, yeah? That will help me as well."

John turned to glance at Greg, who had a look of surprise on his face, his left eyebrow raised almost to his hair line.

"What?" John quipped.

"You've sounded like him all night John." Greg paused before deciding he needed to ask the question that had been in the forefront of his mind since John had told him of his new career choice. "You weren't ever planning on working solely on the medical side of it were you John?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Lestrade. I am not HIM, nor will I pretend to be. All I know is HE taught me a few things, HE opened my eyes to a world I can't turn my back on. I'd like to think HE'd be proud that I continued the work."

It was the most John had talked about Sherl… ( His walls were almost completely down now. He hadn't even allowed himself to think that name, much less say it out loud, since that day at the graveside) to anyone besides Mary since the recording had come out. It left him feeling exhausted and empty.

"Sherlock would be proud John, and you know what? So am I."

John looked at the DI with an unfathomable look. John wished Lestrade's words meant something to him, but no one's praise meant anything to him anymore.

"Goodnight Lestrade…"

Greg watched John walk out into the cold evening air. Even now the sight of John without the lanky consulting detective just a few steps ahead of him wasn't right. He took a deep breath, scrubbed his hands over his face and started back to his office. Whatever was going on, Greg knew he was in for one hell of a ride. He hadn't felt this way about a case since Sherlock died. God help him, he missed the crazy bastard.


	3. Revelations

**Seven Months after the fall…**

He was drawn to her from the first time he saw her standing in front of the lecture hall. Dr. Mary Morstan Ph.D. was known for being a no-nonsense hardass. She was the best London had to offer in the field of forensic anthropology, and until diagnosed with cancer, was also famous for her work on crime scenes around the world. Now she was passing her knowledge on while she still had the chance. John had been surprised when he had received the invitation to attend her lecture, but he had a feeling a certain git with a God complex and a predilection for umbrellas had something to do with it. Mycroft had taken an interest in John's career choice from the beginning and John hadn't put up much of a fight when he found his way had been paid and furthering his education wouldn't cost him anything. Why fight the 'British Government' when it was a means to an end?

John sat there riveted throughout the whole lecture. HE would have loved this. Afterwards, while he was packing up his laptop, he heard someone clear their throat and when he turned around he found himself looking into the crystal blue eyes of Dr. Morstan. He felt a small pull in his stomach he hadn't even known he was capable of feeling any longer.

"Hello Dr. Watson, I'm Mary Morstan. It's an honor to meet you."

John took the hand that the doctor was offering and returned the strong grip that he was receiving.

"No, Dr. Morstan, the honor is mine. That was, well, extraordinary." John hadn't used that word to describe anyone or anything in months.

"Oh, please call me Mary, and I know the company you've been keeping the last few years Dr. Watson , I'm sure nothing I said up there was new to you. I have read your blog after all…"

John felt a blush creep up his neck at the mention of the blog. He was still posting some of the more 'boring' cases he hadn't previously gotten around to publishing.

"John works for me, and that's not true; even though I worked with a genius who understood everything about the forensic field doesn't mean I do. I'm still learning." John realized with a start that that was most he had talked about HIM since the meeting with Mycroft seven months earlier.

"John, may I just say, I was saddened by what happened. People are idiots and they turn so easily. For brilliance to end in that way is a crime in itself."

"Yes, it is." John said as he looked away from Mary.

"Oh I'm sorry, I've upset you. I'm not very good with these things. "

"It's okay, Mary, I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

"I would like to hear more about him. His science of deduction was fascinating to me. Do you think we could have a drink or dinner sometime? I have some questions about some of the cases I've read about."

Normally John would have started to backpedal at this point. He didn't talk about HIM, he just didn't, or couldn't, but there was something about this brilliant scientist standing in front of him, wanting to know more about HIS genius, that John just couldn't turn down.

"Oh, that would be, uh, nice."

Mary handed John her card. "Give me a call, we'll set something up."

John watched her walk away and for the first time in seven months he didn't feel completely alone.

**Eight Months after the Fall**

John and Mary had been out a handful of times since that first dinner, when they spent three hours talking about the science of deduction. Speaking about HIM to Mary just came naturally. John couldn't explain it, but he saw a lot of HIM in Mary. Mary claimed being ill had tamed her quite a bit, but she was still blunt to the point of rudeness at times and not the most socially aware person. She was brilliant in a way that John found comfortably exasperating, and he had learned so much from her in just their short time of getting to know each other.

Now, standing in Mary's sitting room after a few pints, John felt sick to his stomach. He knew that at this point, if this had happened before the fall, John probably would have already slept with Mary, or at least attempted to. John hadn't even so much as tried to kiss her. He liked Mary, and enjoyed being around her. It took the edge off the loneliness and made him feel a bit less empty, but he had no sexual drive at all. He faked his way through most daily emotions, but he couldn't faked his way through this. He didn't want to, and Mary deserved better than that. Mary wasn't an overtly physical person, but tonight had a different feel to it. John had noticed lingering touches all night. Mary had just come out of a hard week of chemo and was feeling well for the first time in months. John didn't want to do anything to dampen her spirits. He cared for Mary; maybe he could push through his fear of intimacy for her if that's what she needed.

"You still with me, John?" Mary was standing just inches away from him, looking anxious . She placed a hand on his chest. God, she was so close to him. No one had been this close to him since the wake. It was unnerving and he didn't understand why. Mary's hand had moved to his face to cup his cheek and she began to lean in. John met her halfway and their lips brushed together. Neither of them moved. They just stood there breathing in each other's air. John tried to make his body move, to deepen the kiss, to do what the old John Watson would have done, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. After a moment Mary pulled away and took a step back.

"John, why are you crying?"

John brought his hand to his face felt hot tears running over his cheeks, it registered to John that he should be feeling something, embarrassment maybe, but all he could feel was the void where his heart should be. John hadn't cried since that day at HIS grave.

"John, talk to me. What is it?"

"I'm sorry Mary, I don't... I don't know what's wrong with me." Mary stepped closer and wrapped her arms around John. John buried his face in her shoulder and let himself be led to the sofa.

"It's alright John. It's okay, it's me, I read it wrong. You know I'm rubbish with these things. I'm sorry."

They were now sitting side by side on the couch, with John's head resting on Mary's shoulder, tears still cascading down his face.

"No Mary, it isn't you. It's just… I don't, I mean I haven't really been in that frame of mind since, you know, before…"

"That's alright John; can I be honest with you?"

"Of course." Mary turned so she could look at John. He could see a slight flush in her cheeks, something he had never seen before.

"I was going to ask you to stay with me tonight, not for sex, well not just sex, but more the company. I would just like to wake up next to you tomorrow. I'm not a very sexual person John, I've never really needed a sexual relationship, but I was willing to enter into one with you, because I thought that's what you would want, or need. Really, I just want to know someone is there when I fall asleep and when I wake up. Well not just anyone, but I mean… you know, you."

It was Mary's turn to be embarrassed; she was intently studying her hands where they rested in her lap. John slowly reached out his hand and lifted Mary's chin.

"I can do that Mary, I can be that for you, and I'm not saying I won't ever want to, you know, be physical with you, I just obviously have a few things to sort out."

"John please do not feel oblig…" John placed a finger on her lips.

"Stop Mary, I do not feel obligated in anyway. I struggle waking up to an empty flat as well."

"So you'll stay?"

"Yes Mary, I'll stay."

**Thirteen Months after the fall…**

"Fuck off, Mary."

"No John, not this time! You don't get to walk away from me, not again.."

"Leave it Mary; if you have ever cared for me, please leave it."

John had Mary's upper arms firmly gripped in his hands. Not tightly enough to hurt; he was still rational enough to know how fragile she was.

"We can't ignore this anymore, John. I've come to care about you, about this..." She tried to make a motion with her hand between the two of them. "…Whatever this is that we are doing. I know you give me what you can, John, and I respect that, but you have to deal with it, John. Your feelings for him are finally pushing through those walls you've built. The nightmares are getting worse; obviously your subconscious is struggling to deal with these feeling and it's destroying you, John. It's okay that you loved him, or still love him. It doesn't bother me. We comfort each other, that's what we do! I don't want to die alone in my bed, and you have lost the love of your life, but still can't bear to be alone. We're both broken and that's acceptable. I just can't sit by while you wither away, you have to deal with this, John. You have to admit he was more than just your flat mate."

John had long since let go of Mary's arms. Words suddenly rushed out of him before he could think about them.

"I didn't know I loved HIM, not while HE was still, well you know… It wasn't until that night at your flat that I began to understand the depth of my feelings for him. The nightmares are the same every time. It's me trying to find him so I can tell him… so I finally can tell him I love HIM, but I can never catch up with him. Every time, I wake up knowing I lost something profound before I even had the chance to acknowledge it. I am sorry that seeing me like this hurts you Mary. I do care about you Mary, you're the only person that understands, the only person who puts up with me and doesn't try and make me be more than I'm able. Please, please don't go. Don't leave me."

John didn't know at what moment his knees had failed him, but he was on the floor now, with his head in his hands. It was the first time he had ever said out loud how he felt. Mary knelt next to John and embraced him, pressing a kiss into his hair.

"John, you know I can't promise not to leave, but I will be here as long as this body is still fighting."

John let out a strangled cry. They never discussed Mary's diagnoses; they led a life of blissful denial. Something in John cracked at the thought of Mary not being there.

"Marry me…"

"What?"

"You heard me, Mary, marry me."

"John…"

"Mary, you're right. HE was it for me. I can't imagine loving anyone like I loved HIM, but you were also right when you said I can't bear to be alone, either. We do work, Mary. I want to be there for you, I want to take care of you and make this time easier for you. You have saved me and I want to do that for you. You are the only person who means anything to me anymore, Mary. If that isn't a reason to get married I don't what is."

"John, this isn't really socially normal. People won't understand it, even if we tried to explain. They already jump to conclusions. Are you alright with the assumptions people will make? "

"Ha, believe me when I say it won't be the first time I've been in a relationship where people think they know what's going on in my bedroom."

"John, I accept."

**Three and a half years after the fall- Returning to 221B after NYS, the day of the first case**

John couldn't shake thoughts of Mary as he unlocked the door to their flat, knowing that she would never again be waiting at home with a cup a tea and an interesting medical journal that they could have nice row over. John would go back to the complete emptiness that had been his life before Mary had come into it.

He pulled a pair of gloves out of his kit and walked over to the safe; he inspected the keypad, but nothing was amiss. John punched in the code and heard the pop of the tumblers unlocking. He looked at the contents, the cedar box, two twin sealed envelopes containing his and Mary's wills, and the skull. John snapped a quick picture to compare with the one he had taken two years earlier. John hadn't known at the time why he had done that, but now he was glad he had. He slowly pulled out the cedar box, walked over and placed it on his desk. He took a deep breath and opened the lid.

"God, no…"

John barely made it to the bathroom before emptying the contents of his stomach.


	4. The British Government

Chapter 4

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Dr. Watson?

John was pacing the small kitchen. He had cleaned himself up from earlier and now was all business. Back ramrod straight, about face turns, and rock steady hands.

"Don't act like you don't know what's going on Mycroft. There's no way you don't know that I found my own dog tags shoved down a dead woman's throat at my first crime scene. Now I need you to send me all the CCTV footage from Baker Street for the last week."

"What was in the box, Dr. Watson?"

John walked over to the window and looked out from behind the sheer curtains down at the pedestrians below. He idly wondered if he had missed some piece of surveillance equipment left over from before the fall. He didn't quite have it in him to be angry with Mycroft. His wrath was more appropriately directed elsewhere. He dropped the curtain and sank into his armchair.

"HIS scarf, from that day," John said in a breath of a whisper.

"That's not possible Doctor."

"Well then someone did a bloody good job reproducing it, down to the blood splatters." John took a quick inhalation through his nose to calm the storm he could feel fighting its way up. "The bastard took my cross as well, Mycroft."

John could hear that Mycroft had covered the phone on his end with his hand trying to muffle the conversation he was having with whoever was in the room with him. There was a short pause before Mycroft directed his attention back on to John.

"There is a car out front for you. I suggest you make your way down and please bring the box and its contents along as well. I will see you presently."

"I can't, I have to go and check on Mary. I haven't been there yet today."

"I can assure you, Dr. Morstan is resting comfortably and will not be cognizant of your absence. Get into the car Dr. Watson."

John walked into to Mycroft's office with a sense of profound apprehension. Nothing good had ever come from him being in this room. The memories of that hateful recording began to overtake him. He could still hear the shake in HIS voice as HE spoke John's name to Moriarty. Even after all this time and the revelation of the nature of John's feelings for his best friend, he was still surprised at how deep his grief ran. Time does not heal all things; it just gives you more camouflage to cover up the pain. John carried the cedar box in his hands.

"Hello Doctor."

"Stop being such a snobbish git and just call me John. You use to call me John when She… Just go back to John." John took a seat in front of Mycroft and placed the box on the desk that was between them.

"Did you touch anything?" Mycroft asked, his tone patronizing.

"I've had gloves on the entire time Mycroft. I'm not an idiot, and I didn't touch the scarf at all."

Something intensely ugly was lurking in Mycroft's face, just under the indifferent façade. John hadn't thought much about how this might be affecting the only surviving Holmes. Mycroft obtained a set of gloves of his own and opened the box; he hesitated slightly before pulling the blue plaid scarf from the velvet lined box. John stomach clenched again at the sight of the scarf splattered with blood.

"This isn't possible," Mycroft said under his breath.

"You keep saying that Mycroft, but there it is."

Mycroft came around the desk and rested back against it. His shoulders were slumped forward and he was clasping the scarf in his hands. John could see the man's knuckles turning white. John had never seen Mycroft show this much emotion. Even after the death of this brother. Something was very wrong here.

"John… I…" Mycroft's voice actually broke and John saw a tear roll down the man's nose. John was so shocked it overtook his anger for a moment. John had felt more emotion in the last twelve hours then he had in the last three years. He was exhausted, but he felt more alive than he had since he lost HIM. John could feel the adrenaline in his blood, which only came when there was a mystery to be solved. Yes, he would be doing this one on his own for the first time, but he felt closer to HIM for it. The fact that someone had thought to use HIS memory for bait made John want to apprehend them all the more, but if he was being honest with himself he knew this wouldn't end in an arrest, it would end with John having blood on his hands, and he was just fine with that.

The moment stretched on with Mycroft slowly trying to collect himself and John trying to give him the proverbial space to do so.

"You must forgive me John, this is not the time for this." John was about to ask what the right time would look like if not this, but kept his mouth shut. "John, I fear you are in terrible danger, I underestimated this situation and I am sorry. I thought when I hadn't heard from him he must have just been…" Mycroft's eyes shot up to John's for a moment and then squeezed shut as he quickly pushed himself off the desk and walked over to the window.

"Heard from who Mycroft? What's going on?"

"Just one of my field agents John, I have a man working on uncovering the rest of Moriarty organization. "

"So this is connected to that bastard… Even dead he's still fucking with us." John took a steadying breath. " So what does this field agent have to do with me Mycroft?"

"Nothing John, I'm sorry I mentioned that. I was distracted, too many thoughts at once. John, I am sorry, but I fear you must go and say your final goodbyes to your wife. I need to get you somewhere safe and it's too dangerous to move her as well…'

"Jesus! Is Mary in danger? I won't just leave her, Mycroft. I can't do that. I promised to be there at the…end. I won't run from danger. I never have and I never will."

"John, we both know Dr. Morstan has a week at best, I can put an agent with her at all times, but I doubt she's in danger…" Mycroft had long since stopped trying to hide from John how far his reach could stretch.

John had heard enough and began to move to the door. With his back to Mycroft he spoke in a deep, commanding voice.

"If you can put a sentry on her you can put one on me as well. I'll be at the hospital. I expect a file to be delivered to me there with everything you know about what's going on Mycroft."

"John…" John turned back to glare at Mycroft.

"No Mycroft, you are not playing me for a fool this time. I am going to go and spend what time my wife has left with her and then you and I are going to go after whoever is targeting me. Do you understand me?"

Mycroft blinked twice and then let his features slide back into the bored expression John was used to seeing him wear.

"Yes John, I understand."

With a quick about face, John stalked from the room.

Mycroft looked out of the window once more.

"What mess have you got into now?" he mused out loud.


	5. Better to have loved and lost

Chapter 5

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John, obviously. Come here. Come to me…"

John tried to move forward, to reach out and touch his best friend, his flatmate, the love of his life, but he couldn't lift his arms, no matter how hard he tried.

"Sherlock…"

"Come along John. Come to me." Sherlock had his hand held out to John, just as he had that day so long ago. His voice was rough with unshed tears and his head was bleeding, but his eyes were as bright as ever. John felt a physical ache deep inside him: the desire to hold him; to put his hands on Sherlock; to tend to his wounds and keep him by his side forever.

"Sherlock, I can't… can't move."

"You must John, I need you. Please, my love, come to me…"

John felt a shock run through his body at those words, like he was lit up from the inside out. He felt his muscles jump with the intensity of it. He took a step forward, but still couldn't lift his arms to reach out to Sherlock. It was maddening.

"That's it John, just keep your eyes fixed on me. That's it, step towards me."

Sherlock was getting farther away instead of closer. That made no sense to John, that's not how this was supposed to work. He looked down and away from Sherlock to see that he was standing on the edge of Bart's roof.

"No John, don't look down, just keep looking at me and take the next step. Come to me John, come and be with me forever. Please, I need you."

John paused, and looked back up at Sherlock.

"I can't Sherlock, not yet… I have something I need to do first."

"Don't John, don't go after them. Please just come to me."

"I'm sorry Sherlock. Please forgive me. I love you so much, and I will join you, but first I have to do this."

Mary was suddenly standing next to Sherlock, grasping his hand.

"Please John, just come with us, and don't go back down. Just take the next step. You can be with both of us John. Isn't that what you want? Wouldn't that make you happy?"

John hesitated again. God, to rest with both Mary and Sherlock sounded so very good. All he had to do was take the last step off of the edge. They would catch him, he knew they would, but he felt a pull backwards. He knew it wasn't time yet, he had a mystery to solve.

"Sherlock, I can't leave it unsolved. You understand don't you?"

"John this will not end well, you will not survive what you will find at the end of this puzzle. We will never be together if you follow the path you're on."

Both Sherlock and Mary started to fade away into the sky, their hands still clutched together.

"Please don't! Sherlock…Mary! Please don't leave me…"

"We're sorry John, we're so sorry."

John awoke with a scream in his throat. He has lying with Mary in her hospital bed. She had yet to gain consciousness since he had arrived earlier in the day. John was shaking, the ache from the dream still pounding away in his veins. He had never had a dream like that before. He knew that Mary's time was coming to an end, but the thought of her being gone… just like Sherlock was close to breaking what little composure he had left. Mary's Advance Medical Directive was very clear, she did not wish to be kept alive by machines, and John would acquiesce to her request, but he had needed to just hold her for a bit longer. He glanced at the clock. Mary's medical team would be in any minute to unhook her from the multiple machines ranged around her.

"Oh Mary, I'm so sorry I wasn't here to say goodbye. If I had known, I would never have gone to that flat, but it's too late now isn't it? Mary, I'm in something pretty deep, someone out there is gunning for me, and they're using HIS memory to draw me out. I wished you would be here to unravel this with me. I am sorry we never got to work together. I love you Mary, and to be honest, I'm not so sure I won't be far behind you in this. Rest now my love." John untangled himself from Mary and kissed her forehead. "I'll make both of you proud."

Right on cue the room began to fill with nurses and Mary's doctor.

"Dr. Watson, are you ready?"

"Yes."

Dr. Mary Morstan took her last breath at 4:34pm and John's world became bleak and empty once more. He now had nothing to keep him from the abyss that had been threatening to swallow him for years now, but sod it if he wasn't going to take whoever had come after him right over the edge as well. John no longer had anything to live for, and he knew how very dangerous a man like that could be. He grabbed the file that Mycroft had sent over and made his way back to 221b, back to the battlefield.


	6. The Players

Chapter 6

_Your doctor is in trouble- **M**_**_ycroft Holmes_**

_Return to London.-**Mycroft Holmes**_

_Sherlock, this is growing tiresome.-_**_Mycroft Holmes_**

_ is dead. He will not handle this well.-_**_Mycroft Holmes_**

_He will go after whoever did this, on his own.-_**_Mycroft Holmes_**

_Please brother, I am worried for you both.-_**_Mycroft Holmes_**

At 6:45 Mycroft's mobile vibrated in his hand. He didn't have much hope that it was his wayward brother. Sherlock had dropped off the map several times in the last few years, but Mycroft knew it was more than that this time. Sherlock would not have ignored Mycroft's text about John; of that much he was certain. The information he had sent to John was of course false, Mycroft needed to distract John until he could figure out where Sherlock was and how to get him out. The scarf that had been placed in John's safe was indeed Sherlock's, but the last time Mycroft had seen it was around his brother's very much alive neck. He could picture Sherlock in the hostel in Dusseldorf, his hair cut shout and died ginger, no longer wearing his greatcoat, but not quite able to let go of his partiality for scarves. That had been six month ago. Mycroft had accompanied the cleanup crew for Sherlock's latest adventure. The body count had been only at five, which was on the low side for Sherlock these days. Mycroft let the memory wash over him.

**Three years after the Fall-Dusseldorf, Germany**

Sherlock sat in a dirty wing back chair in a musty hostel sitting room, his long legs draped over the arm and his head resting upon the side of the chair. He was the picture of tranquility. Mycroft found his brother's calm demeanor disturbing, seeing how Sherlock was covered in blood and surrounded by the stench of death.

"Leg work, brother dear? Is that what you've succumbed to in my absence?"

"I have come to check on your wellbeing Sherlock. You were not meant to move on this until next week. " Mycroft struggled to keep his voice even. This was the first time he had seen Sherlock since the night after the fall, when Molly Hooper had brought a shattered Sherlock to him. Mycroft had quickly arranged to get Sherlock out of the country and on his way to a secure location in Amsterdam. It had taken his brother almost six months to heal from his jump off of St. Bartholomew's hospital roof.

"I got bored." Sherlock shrugged.

"Yes, I have heard of your activities to assuage your boredom of the last week. If you still have any, I would appreciate it if you would hand it over without a scene."

Sherlock stretched and slid out of the chair. He lit a cigarette and watched as the cleanup team scrambled around him.

"It's all gone, Mycroft," He replied, his voice void of all emotion.

"This is not going to become a problem, is it Sherlock? We are so close to Moran, I would hate to be forced to remove you from this operation because you cannot keep your 'boredom' under control."

"It's none of your concern Mycroft. It was an isolated incident. You know you can't keep me idle for that long." Sherlock was no longer looking at his brother.

"Oh yes, but of course, I would be at fault." Mycroft took the time to study the younger man.

Sherlock looked better than Mycroft had ever seen him. His brother's frame was still slight of course, but now he had the look of a wiry boxer. Mycroft could see well-toned muscles under his brother's tight tee-shirt. His movements were quick and feline. The way he stood, back straight, head held high and defiant, was shockingly similar to a certain Army doctor back in London. Mycroft mourned the fact that the two men were both now soldiers in a war they were never meant to be part of. Sherlock had the lit cigarette hanging loosely in his fingers; he nonchalantly flicked the ash in the direction of one of the corpses at his feet. Mycroft shuddered, Sherlock had transformed into something Mycroft wasn't quite sure he'd be able to come back from.

"How is he?" Sherlock's eyes were intently studying the corpse.

Mycroft didn't hesitate in his answer, he knew exactly of whom his brother was asking.

"With Dr. Morstan's health deteriorating at an increasing rate, he has begun to focus even more on his studies and at night he's still doing triage at A&E. Detective Inspector Lestrade is pushing to get Dr. Watson's training done with him at NYS. I have put in a word to get his degree fast-tracked."

Sherlock finally looked his brother in the eye. The younger man's eyes shone with a light Mycroft was sure hadn't been there in some time.

"He's still going through with that?"

"Of course he is, nothing would deter John from his path."

A small smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Sentiment?"

Mycroft just raised an eyebrow at his sibling. He wouldn't even dignify that question with an answer.

Sherlock nodded once, turned and retrieved his coat and scarf off the back of the chair he had been sitting in when Mycroft had entered, he wrapped the scarf around his neck and shrugged into the leather bomber jacket then strode out of the room without another word.

Mycroft shook himself out of his thoughts and looked down at the waiting text message.

_Don't worry Mr. Holmes; it isn't actually his scarf or his blood. I just wanted a fun gift for our Doctor. It's time for him to enter the game again, don't you think? Where, oh where, is that brother of yours Mr. Holmes? It's time for all the players to get into their places. I know the Doctor is stepping into his as we speak._

The number was blocked and there was no signature attached to the message.

Mycroft couldn't dial John's number fast enough, but it went straight to voicemail.

_You've reached Doctor John Watson, please leave a message and I will return your call as soon as possible._

Mycroft bit out a quick message after the beep. "Come straight to my office once you receive this message John. Do not go anywhere else!"

He mashed down the end button and fought the urge to hurl the mobile against the wall. Instead he pressed the intercom button on his desk phone to page his secretary.

"Yes sir?"

"Patch me through to the CCTV cameras around Baker Street, also run the GPS tracer on Dr. Watson's mobile."

"Live stream sir?"

"Yes, but also bring up the recordings for the last three hours."

Mycroft turned to the screens on the far wall as the images were being called up. He knew straight away that John was not home. It was coming up on 7:30 and there were no lights in the windows of 221b. He began watching the recordings of the last three hours.

The recordings showed John exit a cab at 5:28 and enter his flat; approximately forty-five minutes later John reappeared and hailed a cab.

Mycroft pressed the intercom button again.

"Yes sir?"

"Do we have a location on Dr. Watson?"

"I'm sorry sir; it seems the GPS on the doctor's mobile has been deactivated."


	7. Red

So… Sherlock's pretty messed up in this story. It gets kind of violent for the next few chapters. Deductions are formatted in bold and italic. Sorry about the delay...

* * *

Sherlock glanced around the corner.

**_*Two men standing on the front steps: one with pp7 in shoulder holster, other unarmed- civilian- hostage? No, scientist-acceptable collateral damage*_**

Sherlock came out of the alleyway and walked towards the house. It felt strange to be back in London after so long, but this is where Moran had finally landed, and capturing Moran and putting an end to these three long years was Sherlock's mission. He would think about what that really meant only after it was done. He couldn't let anything distract him now.

"Do you happen to have cigarette?" Sherlock asked the armed man.

"No, now shove off mate."

"Oh you know I'm not going to do that."

Sherlock slid his Army Browning L9A1 (ignore the sentiment) from where it was tucked in the waist band of his trousers.

"Inside shall we?"

Sherlock pressed his gun in the armed man's back and nodded towards the second man to lead the way. The man Sherlock identified as a scientist, a pharmacist to be exact, opened the door to the terraced house and led the way in. Once inside Sherlock kept the gun pressed into the man before him. He pushed him into the room on the left, a sitting room.

"Moran isn't here…" Sherlock quickly spun the man around and silenced him with the butt of the Browning across his face. There was a familiar crunch as the gun came into contact with the thug's nose.

"I'm sure you've figured out who I am by now, and by that you know that you're not going to make it out of this alive. So I suggest you just tell me where he is and I kill you quickly." As he said this he reached into the man's coat and grabbed the PP7 from the shoulder holster and tucked it into his waist band.

The now bleeding man had sunk to his knees, but he still wore a defiant scowl. Sherlock turned to the one he had identified as one of Moriarty's scientists, who was cowering in the corner.

"You! Run along and tell Moriarty's dog that I'm coming for him. I'm tired of our game. It's time to finish this. GO!"

The man tripped over himself as he ran to the door. Sherlock knelt before the bleeding man in front of him.

"So once again, are you going to tell me? Or do I have to persuade you?" Sherlock took out the knife he always carried, strapped around his calf. He knew this man was new to the organization and his loyalty didn't run as deep as most. He didn't think he'd have to rely on knife work to get this man to talk.

The sight of the knife shocked the man. The defiance in his eyes was quickly fading, being replaced by fear. "I… I don't…" the man stuttered.

He yanked the man up by the scruff of his neck and pushed him roughly into the chair that was sitting in front of the desk. He placed the L9A1 on the desk, then Sherlock brought his hostage's hands around the back of the chair and secured his wrists with a zip tie he had in his back pocket. The man was barely conscious; the amount of blood gushing from his nose would soon have him passing out from blood loss. Sherlock knew he needed to get whatever information he could quickly. He brought the knife to the tender part of the man's inner thigh and with a quick flick of his wrist cut through the man's trousers, only barely nicking the skin. The motion was just to bring the man to the room, just enough pain for his body to register the new threat. The man's eyes widened and he began to shake with fear as Sherlock continued to make the small cuts along his leg. It took only four shallow cuts.

"He's going after your…your friend. The doctor."

Sherlock saw red as he stabbed the knife into the meat of the man's leg. He hardly registered the man's agonized scream.

"That was not the right answer! WHERE IS MORAN?"

"I don't know! He didn't tell any of us!"

Sherlock could tell the man was telling the truth. He turned on his heel and grabbed his gun from the desk, pointed it at the man's head and pulled the trigger in one quick movement. He leaned over, pulled the knife from the thigh and wiped the blood off on his trousers. He searched the man's coat for a mobile. He had lost his in Portland two months earlier and hadn't bothered to get another. He had grown tired of Mycroft's constant contact. He had been underground in the States after his latest injury, a gunshot to the shoulder, a parting gift from his last run in with Moran. Sherlock located the mobile and a pack of cigarettes in the coats inner pocket. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it with his own lighter, bringing it up to his lips and inhaling deeply. His mind was racing. The anger that he felt at Moran was all-consuming. After all he had done to keep John safe, in the end it had failed. Moran had come back to his mission. The one mission in which he had failed his puppet master.

Colonel Sebastian Moran had been Moriarty's second in command. Mycroft had procured Moran's file in the ineffable fashion in which he always did such things. Moran had a long military career; he was trained as a sniper and word quickly spread of his talent with a rifle. He became a ghost, the assassin the government called in when they needed a clean kill, no mistakes and untraceable. Six years ago Moran had been on a mission deep in the Afghan hills where he massacred the entire family of an Al-Qaida general. The General wasn't in the village at the time. After that the Colonel never reported back to camp. He disappeared into Moriarty's web. The family had been Moran's first hit for Moriarty.

Moran was a man who enjoyed not only killing, but pain as well. Inflicting pain was his life's work, just as the puzzles had been for Sherlock and Moriarty. Sherlock knew that there had been more than just an employer/employee relationship between the two insane men. They had been lovers, a fact Sherlock had uncovered shortly after the Fall. Sherlock had taken Moran's heart and now Moran was here to return the favor.

Sherlock dialed Mycroft's number, and held his breath. He would break the self-imposed silence with his brother; for John. He'd do anything for John, had done things for him already that had transformed Sherlock into the executioner he was today. Somewhere along the way he had become judge, jury and executioner; he was nearly as talented at the killing as he was figuring out the puzzles that led him to his targets. His brother's voice snapped him out of his mind palace.

"This is Mycroft Holmes."

"Is he safe?"

"Brother how good of you to call, such dramatic timing, as per usual."

"Do you have him, Mycroft?"

"John has not been seen since approximately 6:13 Thursday evening."

Sherlock took a sharp inhalation. He knew he shouldn't have relied on his brother to keep John safe. Mycroft had let him down so many times before, why had he thought this would be different?

"That was three days ago Mycroft! What the bloody hell have you been doing? Do you know where he is?"

"I am sorry Sherlock. The GPS on John's phone was disabled at the same time he disappeared. I believe he did this on purpose, he didn't want me following him."

"Damn it Mycroft!"

"I think it's time we had a sit-down Sherlock. Where are you? I will send a car."

Sherlock gave Mycroft the address and added in a monotone voice. "Send a crew along as well, only one count."

"Yes, brother dear. I will see you shortly."


	8. So Close, but yet

Thanks again to TheRimmerConnection for helping me work through some not so good chapters to push through the writer's block.

* * *

John hunched down in the alleyway, his legs numb from kneeling for the last three hours. Leaving the hospital John had experienced an epiphany. Ever since he pulled his dog tags out of the victim's mouth something had been nagging at the back of his mind. He had heard about the same sort of thing this during his time in Afghanistan. Some Colonel had gone AWOL and massacred a family in the hills outside a small village. He had shoved his dog tags down the dead mother's throat. He didn't know why or how, but John knew that it was connected someway.

This man, this Colonel, was known to be one of the best snipers in the world, and John remembered Moriarty's love for snipers. Mycroft's files said it was some released con that HE and John had helped put behind bars, and since HE wasn't around for him to seek revenge on, John was his target now. It was bollocks and John saw through the smokescreen at once. He was angry at Mycroft for wasting his time, but he felt that Mycroft had an alternative motive, almost as if the older man was trying to protect him. Which was ridiculous; John could handle himself, a point of which Mycroft was well aware. When John had returned to the flat after the hospital, he had found a piece of stationery underneath the penknife on the mantel. He had noticed it right away; John knew everything about his flat. It was all categorized in the depths of his mind; especially the things he had kept that reminded John of HIM. There was an address written on the stationery and it was signed SM. John knew it was just one more cheap shot taken at HIS expense.

John quickly went to work disengaging the GPS on his mobile. It had been a Christmas present from Mycroft two years past. John always knew that Mycroft was keeping tabs on him, but it never bothered him before. It kept him feeling close to HIM. John didn't want Mycroft following him now. He had given the older Holmes a chance to work with him on this, and the man had instead tried to trick him. No, John was going after this bastard on his own, the hell with the consequences.

As deep in thought as John was part of his mind was still focused on the entrance to the terraced house. He had no idea what or who was waiting for him inside. He finally took the chance to stand and stretch; as he did so, two people exited the house. The two men stood on the steps engaged in heated discussion. John was about to move closer so as to hear what they were saying, but paused when he saw another man exiting the alleyway opposite him. The third man strode up to the two on the steps, and after exchanging a few words, John saw him reach around to pull a gun from the small of his back. John was close enough to see the familiar shape of a Browning L9A1, the copy of the gun he had tucked, eerily, in the same spot. The three men re-entered the house. Something about the armed man had stopped John dead in his tracks. Were the people coming after him sick enough to find a man so similar to HIM just to try and break John? There were some differences between the stranger and his dead friend. The stranger was ginger and much more muscular than HE ever was, the man wore a black tee shirt that was pretty much painted on him, same with the black jeans. The bomber jacket was black as well. Nothing that HE would ever wear, but the way the man had moved, his height, just the way he carried himself had John lightheaded with the implication of it. He barely had time to put together a rational thought when one of the men came bolting out of the door. John jumped into action, he jogged over to the man and grabbed him by the elbow.

"You and I need to have a little talk," John said while pushing the L9A1 into the man's side and leading him back into the alleyway. "Be quick and don't lie to me. Believe me when I say I have no problem putting a bullet in your brain."

The man looked at John with recognition.

"Please don't hurt me Dr. Watson! I'm just a pharmacist. I just make things for them…"

"How do you know who I am? What is this place? Who is 'them'?" John had slammed the man again the wall of the house that made up one side of the alleyway. He had one hand pressed against the man's chest, pinning him against the wall. The other hand pressed the gun to the man's temple.

"I wo… work for Moriarty, well I did… before…" The man's stutter was beginning to annoy John; he no longer had the patience for which he was once known. "Now it's Moran… and he has me making a drug… for…" With that the man slid the hypo-needle out of his coat sleeve and stabbed it into John's neck. "…For you Watson." Just before John blacked out, he heard the distinct sound of a gunshot.


	9. The Prodigal Son Returns

Chapter 9

Mycroft collapsed into his favorite leather chair by the fireplace in his home. He had left the office to have the inevitable showdown with his younger brother in a more suitable location, one where he could control who heard what. He had not expected the fax that was waiting for him when he arrived home; the paper he held in his hands made things even more complicated. The grainy CCTV image of John Watson being dragged into a car, clearly unconscious, was worrisome enough, but Mycroft quickly recognized the location and knew Sherlock would not respond well to knowing he had been so close while John was being apprehended. Moran was playing a dangerous game, one in which Mycroft wondered if there would be anything remotely resembling a victor.

Mycroft stilled himself when Sherlock entered the room. This would not be a happy reunion. His concern for his brother would be cast aside quickly when Sherlock learned of what had happened just outside the terraced house while he was inside trying to extract information. Sherlock would take John's capture as a personal failure, as if he could have deduced what Moran's plan was.

Mycroft was shocked by Sherlock's appearance; he had never seen his brother with ginger hair and brown eyes. He held himself the same way he had six months ago, but his face was even harder now. Mycroft knew the recorded number of lives his brother had ended in the last three and a half years, it was tallied at seventy- two, but that was just the ones Sherlock had requested cleanup for. Mycroft felt a deep sense of remorse for what he had allowed his brother to become; all in the name of Queen and country, even if that wasn't Sherlock's reason for dismantling Moriarty's organization, it was however Mycroft's motivation for permitting Sherlock to become such an imperative part of the dangerous operation. Mycroft's eyes didn't leave Sherlock's as the younger man slid into the chair across from him. He was surprised that Sherlock had yet to speak. He had been expecting an outburst…

"Sherlock…"

"The piece of paper you are holding has to do with John. You are shielding it from my view, so it must be something you think will upset me. You haven't found him yet, dead or alive, you would have already told me if you had, but you have spotted him and something has happened to him."

Sherlock held out his hand waiting for Mycroft to hand over the paper.

"Sherlock," Mycroft repeated in barely more than a whisper. He was feeling a need to shield his brother from the image on the fax.

"I need to see it Mycroft… Please."

Mycroft so rarely heard that word from the man beside him and he could never deny Sherlock when he asked things of him in that voice. He handed over the paper without another word and waited for the storm that he knew was to come. He made a silent vow to help in any way he could; he owed both John and Sherlock everything he could offer.

Sherlock's hands began to tremble as he studied the image. After a few noiseless moments Mycroft watched as his brother tore the paper in a fit of rage. Sherlock tossed the shreds of paper into the fire, and then let out an inhuman moan. Mycroft sat still as Sherlock propelled himself out of the chair and began to strike the wall repeatedly; he didn't move to stop his brother until he saw blood running from Sherlock's fist. He slowly removed himself from his seat and walked up behind him, and for the first time in twenty-two years wrapped his arms around his younger brother. Sherlock struggled against him for a moment and then went slack in his arms; the dead weight of his body dragged the two down to the floor. Mycroft found himself whispering contrite comforts, and to his horror he felt Sherlock's tears on his neck as his brother turned in towards him. A hot rage ran through Mycroft. If Moran had been in the room with them at that moment, he was certain he could torn him apart with his bare hands, which was something Mycroft hadn't felt in a very long time, not since reading the papers the day after Sherlock's jump off of St. Bart's. The murderous feeling deepened when Sherlock began to speak, never had Mycroft heard him sound so broken, lost, defeated even.

"We must find him Mycroft, please," Sherlock was begging now. "After everything I did to keep him safe… Please, don't let it all be for nothing."

"We will find him Sherlock, but I need your mind intact to achieve that. You can't fall apart, not now. Not with John's life on the line." Mycroft knew it was cruel of him to say it, but he needed Sherlock's mind to unravel Moran's plan, and he knew he had to be harsh to pull Sherlock back from the brink upon which he was now teetering. Mycroft was well aware of what would happen to his brother if the good doctor was lost to him for good. There would be nothing left for Sherlock, and Mycroft would lose his brother, of that he was convinced. Mycroft knew that he wasn't enough to tether Sherlock to this world, he had never been enough, no one ever was, well not until John Watson anyway.

Mycroft felt the change in Sherlock as his brother pulled himself together, but Sherlock didn't pull all the way out of Mycroft's arms, he just repositioned them so they could look each other in the eye.

"I need him, Mycroft. I need him safe and back with me. One more mission Mycroft, and then we can all be done with this. I want out after…"

"Of course Sherlock." Mycroft didn't try to conceal the relief in his voice.

Sherlock shifted and stood up in his graceful fashion and held out a hand to Mycroft, who didn't hesitate to take it.

"The diet seems to be working, Mycroft."

Mycroft felt a deep affection for his brother in that moment.

"Let's get to work then, shall we?" Sherlock said as he strode off towards Mycroft's home office.

Back to normal between the Holmes brothers.


	10. The Calm Before the Storm

John Watson had never been so angry in his life. Rage burned through him, he could feel it pulse through his veins. He had always been able to control his anger. Even if he was shooting to kill it was always with control. There were times when he allowed rage to simmer towards the surface, but he knew when to cap it with a well-timed joke or a poignant exit. At this moment he had no illusion of control, as he loosened the ropes that bound his wrists together. He felt as if he could almost just break the bindings with brute strength and began to worry about what the man in the alleyway had injected him with. He felt like Mr. Hyde, as if all his inhibitions were gone: he felt invincible.

Finally John worked his way out of the ropes, but didn't move to get up. He kept his eyes closed behind the blindfold that was securely wrapped around his head. He tried to calm the screaming he could hear in his mind; and listen to what was going on around him. There was no sound, besides the beating of his heart, to be heard. 'Fuck it,' John thought; if there was someone in here with him, they would have the fight of their lives on their hands. He wanted to destroy something; anything would do at that moment. John reached up and untied the blindfold and opened his eyes. He was in a small room with cement walls and floor; there was a drain in the middle and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He stood up, crossed the small room and pulled at the handle of the heavy metal door, which to John's surprise, ground noisily open.

"What the fuck?" John whispered. This was too easy; whoever had captured him wasn't trying to keep him. John pulled the door open completely and stepped into a narrow hallway.

**Meanwhile at the Holmes Residence-**

"Sherlock, you need to look at this." Mycroft passed his phone to Sherlock. They were working at opposite ends of the large mahogany desk in Mycroft's home office and the older man's mobile had just sounded off with an incoming message. Sherlock grabbed the mobile and studied the image. It was a surveillance shot of John exiting into a narrow hallway; he was looking directly into the camera, so the image showed his face clearly. John's pupils were clearly dilated, but that wasn't what worried Sherlock. He had come to know every expression that ever passed across John's face. The man Sherlock saw in the picture was not John, not his John anyway. This man looked like a caged animal ready to rip whatever stood between him and freedom to pieces.

"They've used him as lab rat, pumped him full of the drug Moriarty has had them working on." Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

"Project H.O.U.N.D.?" Mycroft asked keenly.

"Same basic principle, but it has been refined by the pharmacists and chemists Moriarty has had on payroll. It's meant to induce anger and lower fear. It's was the opposite of the drug from Baskerville, it was meant to be used by soldiers to block out any emotion beside the need to destroy. Right now John, a highly trained marksman, is stripped of all his morals. Moran doesn't need to hold him, he just needs to release him onto the public, and let him destroy himself. This is too intricate for Moran; it's almost as if Moriarty had a backup plan, a way to burn me even if he wasn't around. He knew from the moment he watched us together at the pool that if something happened to John it would finish me. All they need is some sort of image of John committing a violent crime and I lose him forever. I have a feeling I am meant to witness whatever it is Moran is leading John to do. So there must be a clue, some sort of missing piece in this photograph that will tell me where he is."

Sherlock looked up to find Mycroft gaping at him.

"It has been too long since I have been present to see your mind at work. It truly is remarkable."

Sherlock waved him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

"It isn't remarkable at all if it doesn't help me find John. Now what do you see in this that could lead me to him?" Sherlock tossed the mobile back at his brother.

Mycroft studied the image intently for a few minutes, while Sherlock began to pace the room.

"That isn't possible," Mycroft mumbled to himself.

"What isn't possible? Do you know where he is Mycroft?"

"The facility where we held Moriarty during his time with us, looks a lot like this, but it's a top security holding facility, there's no way Moran could have access…"

"What better place to put John and to get images of him breaking out and possibly killing MI6 agents along the way?. He won't know that's what he's doing. He'll be reacting as if he's fighting for his life. He has no idea that he'll be killing innocent people. Get me a car Mycroft." Sherlock was already donning his bomber jacket and he ran a reassuring hand over the Browning tucked in his waistband.

"Sherlock, if John does something before we can get there, I'm not sure I can… I don't think even my influence can protect him if he kills an MI6 agent."

"You're not going, Mycroft. I have to do this on my own, and Moran will make sure that John doesn't have a chance to do anything until I am present. He wants to see me break as I watch John fall from grace. Now how long will it take me to get there?"

"It's only a few minutes away from here. It's an underground location not far from Parliament."

Mycroft pressed the intercom button and requested his car be brought around. Sherlock watched as Mycroft pulled a small ear-piece out of his desk.

"Please Sherlock, at least wear this so I can know if I need to come in and get you. I also recommend taking out the brown contacts as well. There unnerving."

Sherlock took the ear piece and shoved it into his ear, and quickly removed the colored lenses.

"I'm sure Moran has the facility's surveillance blocked, but try to tap in and find me John."

"I'll do my best, brother. Do be careful, Sherlock."


	11. The Storm

John had been wandering around the maze of hallways for what seemed liked hours, the drug he had been injected with had not shown any signs of wearing off; to be perfectly honest the more frustrated he got by the maze, the more extreme the anger and rage became. His body was shaking with the adrenaline; he needed something to expel the feelings bottled up inside. It took several minutes before he realized he was smashing his fist into the cement wall repeatedly. He couldn't feel any pain so the best idea seemed to be to continue his attack on the wall. Blood dripped down his forearm and the small part of his brain that was still rational told him that the knuckles of his right hand were broken. John ceased his assault on the wall as quickly as he had begun it, and slumped against the opposite wall. He was kneeling with his head in his hands when he heard the grinding of a metal door opening. Every muscle in John's body tensed, finally he would have someone to take his anger out on. John stood up and turned to face whoever was coming. His eyes grew large as he saw HIS doppelganger come walking towards him.

He hadn't been prepared for that, he felt something akin to a knife twisting in his gut. Could he kill someone with such an acute resemblance to HIM? The answer came to him quickly, 'Yup, sure could.' The look-alike just stood there at the end of the hall staring at him. Slowly the man put his hand out in front of him as if he were approaching a scared, wounded animal.

"John, are you alright?"

Dear God, this man even sounded like HIM, John was rooted to the spot, and he couldn't take his eyes off the man.

"John?"

The man was moving towards him, closing the gap between them.

"John, you've been drugged. The anger you feel is pharmaceutically intensified. This isn't how I wanted you to find out that I was alive, but I need to get you out of here. If you'll come with me, I'll explain everything."

The man was standing directly in front of him now. John raised his face to look into the man's eyes, and at that moment, seeing those crystal blue eyes gazing upon him, the truth made its way through his drug addled brain. HE was standing right in front of him, very much alive. Before John even knew what he was doing, he felt his already damaged fist connect with HIS face. John got a few good jabs in before HE wrapped his long arms around him, stopping John mid-swing.

"John, we have time for this later, but right now you are playing right into Moran's plan. He's capturing all of this. All he needs is images of you violently attack som… Oh… Oh that's clever. He thought you would kill me and then …"

John threw his head into Sherlock's nose, allowing him to get free of Sherlock's grasp. He shoved Sherlock once, throwing the other man off balance. John continued to push Sherlock hard back against the wall; the emotions he was feeling were intensified by the drug in his system, he knew that to be true. In the back of his mind, the sane part of him was shouting for him to stop, but he couldn't be bothered with that now. The object of all his pain, love, loss, lust, frustration, and anger was in front of him and nothing could stop John from showing Sherlock what he felt.

"John," Sherlock mumbled from underneath his own hand, which was currently holding his nose. John knew he hadn't hit it hard enough to break it, but it was bleeding profusely.

"Shut up!" John hissed as he pressed into Sherlock, one of his hands had found its way to Sherlock's hair at the nape of his neck, causing the other man to remove his hand from his injured nose. John grabbed a handful of hair, tugged backwards harshly, and then pulled Sherlock's head forward, bringing them together in a bruising kiss. John's mouth attacked Sherlock, who wasn't fighting, but wasn't fully participating either. John let out an aggravated moan in the back of his throat, nipping at Sherlock's bottom lip, causing the other man to gasp ; John took the opportunity to pillage Sherlock's mouth with his tongue. John couldn't stop rutting against the thigh that was between his legs, he needed Sherlock to feel how much John needed him. He broke the kiss and pulled back. He saw fear in Sherlock's eyes, but there was _want_ there was well, not to mention confusion and hurt. They could both taste the coppery flavor of Sherlock's blood.

"Please…" John wasn't sure what he was asking for, but he couldn't help but beg anyway. He was still grinding against Sherlock's thigh as he looked up into the now intense gaze that had him pinned at the moment. John brought his hand up to Sherlock's chiseled cheek and stroked it. The two different types of touches he was simultaneously giving to Sherlock seemed to confuse his friend even more. John couldn't handle looking into those questioning eyes any longer; he brought his lips back to Sherlock's, but hesitated for just a moment, and felt a small victory as Sherlock moved forward slightly, just enough to encourage John to take his mouth again. As their lips joined once more, Sherlock finally moved as he drew John closer into him. John was taken by surprise when he found himself against the wall, being picked up by the world's only, not-so-dead, consulting detective. It was Sherlock who pulled back this time, as John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's slim waist. When their erections collided it sent white sparks through John's vision. He had never wanted someone so desperately in his life.

"Is this what you want John? A quick rut against a wall, while our enemy watches?"

"Fuck, I couldn't care less if the Queen herself were watching! I need you to prove to me that you're here, alive and…mine."

John bent his head down and attached himself to Sherlock's slender neck. He wanted to mark him, he wanted everyone to know what had happened; to know that he had finally laid claim to what should have been his all along. He knew that he would regret his actions after the drug had left his system, but that didn't deter him from taking what he wanted; he unwrapped his legs and slid down Sherlock's body, easily flipping their position once more. He reached for Sherlock's trousers and made quick work of the button and the zip. He pushed his hand down Sherlock's pants and moaned loudly as his hand finally wrapped around Sherlock's erection. The heat coming from Sherlock drove John even further out of his rational mind.

"You want this just as much as I do, don't you Sherlock?" The name rolled off of John's tongue with ease. He couldn't believe that he had gone three and a half years without it crossing his lips.

John took his hand away, licked it and went back to stroking Sherlock with a punishing speed. Nothing about his touch conveyed love, it was brutal and intense. He brought his other hand around Sherlock's throat, pinning him to the wall. John's cock was throbbing in its cage of cotton and denim, but he wasn't worried about getting his. This was about painting a picture for Sherlock, he need to impress upon him what the years without him had done to John. Sherlock's thighs began to shake and John finally worked up the nerve to look up into that passionate stare once more. John had never seen his friend's eyes so dark: there was only a sliver of dark blue rimming the arousal blown pupils. John released Sherlock's throat and started to run his hand through his hair once again. They didn't break eye contact as Sherlock began to thrust into John's hand.

"Sherlock," Just as John spoke Sherlock's name, he felt the taller man's whole body jerk followed by the heat of ejaculate spilling over his hand. Without hesitation John brought his hand up to his mouth and ran a curious tongue through the mess on his fingers. As Sherlock collected himself, John turned to a camera he had spotted earlier.

"Go ahead and publish that, but know I'm still coming for you. I owe you." He turned back to his resurrected best friend. "Welcome back, Sherlock."

With that John strode off towards the door by which he had seen Sherlock enter.


	12. The Reprieve

Chapter 12

Sherlock was grateful for the wall that was he was leaning upon; it was the only thing holding him upright. He couldn't seem to sort the data that was threating to overwhelm him. He hadn't been expecting sexual advances from John, but even more confusing was the way his body had reacted to the stimuli. Sherlock may have been at a loss when it came to intimate relationships, but he was sure that ones first time being brought to climax by another should not be broadcast not only to one's enemy, but also to one's brother. He was sure Mycroft had seen what had transpired between John and himself, but he could not bring himself to feel embarrassed. The only thing he could feel was an overwhelming, all-consuming confusion. He felt adrift and alone, John had shattered him and left him there to pick up the pieces. This wasn't how this was meant to go. Sherlock was always in control of every situation he walked into; he had made sure of that since that day on the roof when Moriarty had so easily stripped him of every aspect of control. He knew he needed to follow John, but he couldn't seem to move. His limbs felt heavy and his brain was blissfully scrambled. On an intellectual level he knew this was just a side effect of the oxytocin and endorphins produced by orgasm, but he still didn't understand the tightness in his chest and the flutter in his stomach. He was experiencing an emotional reaction he had been unaware he was capable of having.

He tried to steady his breath and get his brain back online, but he could only form one concrete thought: **John…John…John**. Finally another thought pushed its way into his brain: **John on the streets of London alone, high, and probably just as confused as me**. This thought was enough to get Sherlock moving. He pushed himself off the wall, took one last look at the camera and, with a veneer of confidence he was in no way feeling, exited the way he came.

To his surprise he didn't have to go searching for John. The doctor had found his way out of the underground bunker and was now waiting for Sherlock in the alleyway.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry… I don't… I can't."

"John it's fine."

"No it's not fine. I just attacked you in there, I couldn't control… I ca…"

Sherlock walked up to John and kissed him mid-sentence. He had to keep John from apologizing, for some reason kissing him seemed like the most logical way. It was a chaste kiss, just a brush of lips and a promise of something more. Sherlock pulled back and rested his forehead against John's.

"My dearest John. I am not angry about what we did. I do have to admit it was unexpected. As you know, I'm not… what I mean to say is, I haven't… God why is this so difficult?"

Behind them, someone cleared their throat and Sherlock knew it was his brother without turning around. This was not the place or the time for this conversation anyhow. John tensed in his arms, Sherlock knew the drug was wearing off, but John was still in fight mode. It surprised the detective when John addressed Mycroft first.

"Did you know?" John asked as he stepped around Sherlock and marched up to the older Holmes. Sherlock turned around and moved towards his brother.

"Of course I knew, John. I am sorry that I was forced to deceive you, but it was impera…" John moved with blinding speed as his fist connected with Mycroft's jaw. Sherlock quickly grabbed John, but unlike earlier, John didn't put up a fight.

Mycroft had stumbled backwards, but had somehow stayed on his feet. Sherlock was slightly confused by the look on his brother's face. If he didn't know any better he'd say there was compassion in Mycroft's eyes, and it was pointed towards John.

"What is with you Holmes brothers? You think you can just toy with people's lives. You are both utter bastards. Let go of me Sherlock." John's voice was low and full of anger. Sherlock had only heard it like that once before, when John had threatened to shoot the Golem for him. He quickly released John and took a step back.

"John, please, we need to get off the street I'm not sure what Moran's next move is, but let's remember the man is a sniper and is determined to kill you. We can talk about this back at Mycroft's."

"No, Sherlock, we are going back to Baker Street, without you, Mycroft, and you are going to tell me everything. I mean it Sherlock, I want the complete story. So help me God, if I think you are leaving anything out, I will walk away from all of this. Is that understood?"

Sherlock was stunned into silence, but he managed to nod.

"We'll take Mycroft's car, won't we Mycroft?"

Sherlock had the feeling he would look back at this moment quite frequently. Cap. John Watson, M.D. had rendered both Holmes brothers mute. This moment would go down in history. Well it should, anyhow.


End file.
